Mother Nature has a way of reminding us we’re getting on, that we’ve gone through youth and middle age and now we’re halfway through “mellow” and approaching “decrepit”. Often, her messages are unexpected, jolting us into reality.
There are some benefits to “getting on” such as less demands for physical exertion. If I’m ever on the scene of a disabled car or a stout lady stuck in a revolving door or some other common everyday emergency, where they used to shout, “Hey, Mac! Lend us a hand here!” Now they say, “Stand back, Pop or you’ll get hurt.”
Thank goodness for that. If I never have to push another stalled car or disengage an overweight lady, I won’t miss it a bit. And sometimes an appearance of feebleness can get me out of a tight spot.
When I get pulled over by a State Trooper for speeding, I often exaggerate my slight hearing loss. “You were doing 65 in a 50 mile zone, Sir,” he says. I smile vaguely , cup my hand to an ear and ask, “What’s that officer?” After a few minutes of screaming, they usually give up, but this last one was on the ball. He leaned over and whispered, “Okay, I’ll let you go this time, Sir.”
“Oh, thanks officer, I’ll try to slow down,” I replied.
“Nice try Gramps,” he said, and whipped out his citation book.
Another complication for approaching dotage is that you appear harmless and the ladies become less stand-offish. I was distracted while walking in the mall by a Victoria’s Secret display and tripped over my own feet. A young woman, a real looker, helped me up and then asked me for my phone number and address. I was flattered and recited them. She wrote them down on a slip of paper and pinned it on my jacket.
The best thing is to face up to growing old and get used to it gradually instead of being shocked after a night on the town to see by your mirror that you look like a million bucks, pale green and wrinkled.
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